


carry on my wayward son

by babblekween



Series: faith falls hard on our shoulders (but legends never die) [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bruce-centric, F/M, Felicity Smoak is Bruce Wayne's sister, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-09 00:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7778992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babblekween/pseuds/babblekween
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[AU] Bruce swore an oath to be stronger, to protect his little sister, and to rid his city of the evil that had taken their parents' lives while Felicity was still in infancy. To do that, Bruce has to become someone else. He has to become something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[P O L Y V O R E]](http://www.polyvore.com/welcome_to_your_life_theres/collection?id=5255997)

It's not that Bruce wants to leave Gotham.

Gotham is his home; it's his city. But it's not a matter of wanting to stay.

Bruce swore an oath to be stronger, to protect his little sister, and to rid their city of the evil that had taken their parents' lives while Felicity was still in infancy. To do that, Bruce has to become someone else. He has to become something else. And he cannot do that in Gotham City with the burden of the Wayne family legacy weighing on his shoulders.

He hasn't told anyone about his plans to leave Gotham City, not yet, but the opportunity presents itself when he graduates from Brentwood Academy at 18. He comes home after his last exam to find the formal dining room decorated (there's streamers and balloons of every color and an utterly _ridiculous_ looking banner covered in blue and green glitter that says _Congratulations_ in his sister's messy printing) and he pauses in the doorway, blinks, and then blinks again.

When his brown eyes sweep over the room, Bruce smiles.

Alfred and Louisa and Felicity are there, smiles wide as they stand around the table, and Louisa's proudly holding a cake.

Bruce knows without asking that the cake is red velvet with buttercream icing; Felicity's favorite.

Because, like Bruce, Louisa and Alfred find it hard to deny Felicity anything.

His Uncle Nathan (he's the CEO of Kane Industries, which he inherited after Bruce's grandfather passed, and he and his family live just north of Gotham in Crest Hill, but they see him the most out of his mother's siblings) and Aunt Margaret (she owns an art gallery in Gotham City) are there also, with their daughter Bette, and, judging by the glitter and paint that covers Bette's arms and romper, she's partially to thank for the banner.

Nathan's smile is wide when he pats his nephew on the shoulder. "Congratulations, Bruce," He says, and Bruce's heart feels it could burst in his chest because it's so full. Nathan and Margaret are busy, Bruce knows, and he doesn't seem them _or_ Bette as often as he'd like, but they're always there when he or Felicity need them; they're there for the big moments.

[Felicity](https://www.polyvore.com/wtyl_felicity_bette/set?id=225026992) barrels across the room before he can blink, flinging herself at Bruce, and years of experience has Bruce catching his little sister at exactly the right moment, hoisting her up into his arms. "Bruce, look! We made you a _cake_ ," She beams, her arms going around his neck, but then she tilts her head to the side and the white bow in her hair goes lopsided, pausing because Alfred says lies are _naughty_. "Well, Louisa really made the cake, but helped with the icing, _honest_ , and Bette and I made the banner all by ourselves."

His sister's buzzing with excitement when she holds out her hands to show him the glitter that has dried on her skin. "I can see that, buttercup," Bruce chuckles as he leans in to kiss her cheek, which he's amused to note has a smear of glitter on it.

Felicity scowls at the term of endearment (she's hated it since he coined the nickname after she demanded he read _The Princess Bride_ for the millionth time) and huffs and then wiggles in his arms until he puts her down, and then their little family sits around the table, Louisa ensuring everyone is served before she takes her place on the other side of Alfred.

Their family is an odd combination, Bruce knows.

He knows the majority of Gotham's elite wouldn't approve of Louisa and Alfred joining them at the table for a family dinner.

Even their Uncle Phillip, their father's only sibling, made a fuss when a then-four Felicity insisted she wanted to sit beside Louisa.

Bruce still remembers the way his hands curled into fists when their uncle dismissed Alfred and Louisa as nothing more than _the help_.

"... Then we played pirates and Kate hit Beth with the sword lots, but she says it just slipped, but Aunt Gabi was _so_ mad..." Bette babbles as she butchers the dinner roll without actually eating it, mouth curved into an excited smile as she talks about their recent trip to Brussels.

( _Uncle Jacob and Aunt Gabi moved to Brussels three years ago, alongside their daughters Beth and Kate, and Uncle Nathan and his family went to visit them for March Break. Bruce and Felicity were invited, but Bruce was focused on his plans and his studies, and Felicity said she didn't want to go without Bruce_ ).

Aunt Margaret's laugh is brassy as she shakes her head at her daughter, and everyone else soon joins in when Felicity goes off on a tangent, and Bruce feels his heart crack. He knows it'll be difficult to leave Gotham, to leave his family, but it's something he has to do, he just has to _tell them_ , and Aunt Margaret provides him with the perfect opportunity when she asks what's next now that high school is behind him.

It's an innocent question, but Bruce knows what everyone expects of him. Ivy League, then taking his rightful place at Wayne Enterprises, even though Bruce is sure his Uncle Phillip would be pleased if he never had to give up his position as CEO. It's just as well, in his opinion, because Bruce has plans of his own.

Gotham needs a symbol; something for the good to rally behind, and for the criminals to fear.

Bruce fully intends to become that symbol once he has the necessary skills.

"I would like to travel, to see the world," Bruce answers. It's as honest of an answer as he can provide, and he knows it's the perfect cover. No one, not even his family, will question a young billionaire gallivanting around the world earning a playboy status, trying to spend as much of his inheritance money as quickly as possible. 

He has done the research and he's prepared for the questions they ask. He talks about the different schools and programs he's looked into abroad, he talks about the countries he'd like to see, the different cultures and histories he would love to learn about. Bruce talks and talks and _talks_ and it's so out of character for him (his sister has always been the chatterbox in the family, whereas he's more likely to quietly brood in the corner) that it convinces his family he's serious.

"Where do you think you'll travel first?" [Margaret](https://www.polyvore.com/wtyl_margaret_kane/set?id=216820691) asks, reaching for her glass of wine.

Bruce opens his mouth to answer, but it's Felicity who manages to speak first, "You're  _leaving_."

His brown eyes dart to his sister and his heart cracks, an open fault line when he sees the  _betrayal_ burning in her cornflower blue eyes that are  _identical_ to their mother's. "Felicity--" Bruce starts, but she's already pushing her chair away from the table, asking if she may be excused as she flees.

Bruce clenches his fists, fighting the urge to run after Felicity, but Louisa is there, placing a comforting hand on the back of his neck before he can bolt. Louisa keeps her hand on his neck. She's not holding, just letting her hand rest there, solid, heavy, a comforting reminder that she's there.

"Give her time, _Tesoro_ ," [Louisa](https://www.polyvore.com/wtyl_louisa_ricci/set?id=216821339) encourages, kissing the crown of his head. "You're her big brother, she won't stay angry with you forever."

Bruce isn't so sure about that, but he takes a deep breath and leans back into Louisa's touch regardless.

He listens, he gives his sister time, _three hours_ of it, and then he goes in search of Felicity.

Bruce finds her sitting on the floor in her bedroom (her bedroom is an explosion of color in the dark, empty mausoleum that was once their parents' house; the color reminding him so much of their mother's gardens in the summer) with her brows furrowed in a mixture of frustration and confusion as she stares down at the dismantled toaster she must have stolen from the kitchen.

His mouth quirks into a fond, amused smile because Louisa will have a fit once she notices its absence, hands on her hips and clicking her tongue, even though Felicity fiddling with the electronics around the manor is a common occurrence. It has been years since the first time he caught his little sister with her pudgy little hands inside their VCR, but he still remembers the way his heart had dropped down, down,  _down_ into his stomach.

_(_

_Felicity is four, lips pursed and brows furrowed in concentration, the first time she takes apart their VCR._

_Her well-loved copy of The Princess Bride is stuck and, instead of asking Alfred or Louisa or Bruce for help, Felicity decides to fix it herself. _

_That's how Bruce finds her an hour later and he must make some kind of distressed noise when he stumbles upon her because Felicity looks up, smiles, and proudly holds up the newly freed tape. "Brucie, look!" Felicity cheers, happiness plain when she adds, "I fixed it."_

_Alfred finds old radio parts hidden in Felicity's closet a little over a week later._

_Felicity dismantled the broken radio because she wanted to see how it worked._

_)_

Bruce shakes the memory from his mind, takes a deep breath, and then pushes himself off the door-frame and makes his way towards Felicity, sitting himself down on the floor beside her. "Louisa is downstairs having a conniption because you left before she could serve the cake you and Bette worked _so_ hard on. Since when do you turn down cake?" He teases when it becomes evident his sister's not going to speak first.

Felicity's stubbornness rivals his own.

And, months shy of her eighth birthday, she's  _mastered_ the silent treatment routine.

Bruce watches her work in silence and then he reaches over to tug one of her pigtails (braids, pigtails, ponytails, Felicity's wild brown curls are always tied away from her face so they don't get in the way) and tickles her nose with the end, asking, "What're you thinking about, buttercup?"

"Just things. In here," Felicity mumbles, gesturing to her head. Felicity has no idea what to say to Bruce, doesn't know the words she needs, so instead, she opts for saying nothing as she starts to put the toaster back together.

She sits a little straighter because  _this_ she can do; this she can figure out.

Wires and math and science make sense to her while people and social cues often baffle her.

Felicity knows she's not supposed to, but sometimes she really misses her Uncle Noah. It has been over a year since he left her Aunt Donna (Uncle Nathan has tried to convince Aunt Donna to leave Las Vegas, to come _home_ , but Aunt Donna refuses because _it's her life, it's her choice_ ) and he's become one of those things that no one talks about. No one will tell her where he's gone and why he left and she hates it.

Uncle Noah understood her better than anyone except Bruce, and she _misses_  him.

But it made Aunt Donna really, really sad when Felicity said that, so she'll never ask again.

"Felicity..." Bruce trails off as he watches her work in silence, struggling to find the words because he knows what this is really about and he  _understands_. His sister never knew their parents, not really, not in any way that counts, Felicity was far too young when they died to retain memories of their father's laugh or their mother's wide smile. So, aside from Louisa and Alfred, Bruce is really the only constant in her life. He's the center of her entire universe.

There are others, sure, they have a multitude of aunts and uncles and cousins from their mother's side, but Bruce is Felicity's constant.

Regardless, Felicity _has_ to know that his leaving Gotham City won't change _that_ ; he'll always be there for her when she needs him, but he doesn't know _how_ to put those thoughts and feelings into words. "You're my sister," Bruce blurts, startling Felicity. "You're my sister and you always will be and nothing, not even continents and oceans and god-knows how many miles, will ever change that. You're stuck with me, buttercup."

Felicity blinks, then mumbles, "'Kay."

"Not even an objection to 'buttercup'?" Bruce teases reaching out to feel her forehead, asking, "Are you sick?" His sister bats his hand away, smiles, and then he's wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his lap. "I saw that. Does that mean you forgive me?"

Felicity shrugs and keeps her eyes down, not even looking up at him.

He shakes his head in a mixture of exasperation and adoration but, if she wants to give him that typical Wayne stubbornness, he can do Wayne stubbornness too. "Please," Bruce pleads before he tightens his hold on her when she tries to squirm away, nuzzling his nose in her hair, inhaling the scent of her strawberry-scented shampoo that offers the same comfort their mother's lavender perfume once provided (he found a bottle of Martha's perfume after the funeral and he treasures it, leaves it in his dresser and only takes it out when the grief threatens to bring him to his knees). " _Please_ , Fee," Bruce adds, resting his cheek on the crown of her head. "Pretty please."

His little sister slouches against him and curls into his chest, her head resting against the steady _thump_ of his heart. "Why should I?" Felicity finally asks, chewing on her thumbnail, then spitting out the flakes of purple nail polish that come off as she does. Bruce smiles because he knows later his little sister will carefully pick a color that will match tomorrow's outfit and ask him to paint her nails before Alfred shoos her off to bed, and Bruce will agree because he can't deny Felicity anything.

Bruce beams at Felicity, and his entire face softens. "Because I'm your brother."

Felicity huffs and scrunches up her nose making him laugh.

"I'll watch _The Little Mermaid_ with you," Bruce offers and is barely able to resist the smirk tugging at his lips when Felicity looks at him, blue eyes narrowed. "And next Felicity Friday, instead of _one_ , you can have _two_ scoops of mint-chip when I pick you up from ballet."

'Felicity Friday' is a tradition he started when he first got his license: he picks his little sister up from ballet after school every Friday and they go get ice-cream and spend the rest of the day doing whatever his little sister wants. Sometimes they go to see a movie; sometimes he takes her to Amusement Mile.

Felicity purses her lips, head tilted to the side. "And?" She prompts.

Bruce huffs. "And I will paint your toes for you, the brightest shade of pink you own."

"Only if I'm allowed to paint  _your_ toes pink too," Felicity challenges, and then she tilts her chin in that impossibly brave way of hers.

"You drive a hard bargain, Miss Wayne. But you have a deal," Bruce vows, holding his pinky out to her, smiling when she links their fingers together seriously before she kisses his cheek and takes off towards the kitchen where he knows Louisa is waiting with the red velvet cake.

Later that night, while Sebastian the crab insists Prince Eric  _kiss the girl_ , Felicity beams from where she's stretched out on the sofa, her feet in Bruce's lap. As promised, Bruce is painting her nails the brightest pink she owns, his tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth as he paints Felicity's smallest toenail carefully, giving the task his usual level of focus.

It's because he looks so  _ridiculous_ that Felicity wiggles her toes in his face, her smile wide when Bruce scowls at her from beneath his lashes as he screws the lid back on the bottle of polish. She then swings her feet out of his lap and scoots down the couch until she's plastered against his side, her newly painted toes stretched out in front of her, her feet on top of Bruce's legs because the coffee table is too far away.

Felicity's grinning down at her toes, her eyes flickering from her newly painted nails to her brother's matching pink nails. She'd insisted that she should paint his first, not because she thinks he'd back out of a pinky promise, but because she's not an  _idiot_ and knows he'd have sent her to bed as soon as her nails were done, escaping his fate until she annoyed him with the sheer force of her personality until he caved.

Bruce catches her grin and asks her what it's for, and Felicity doesn't hesitate to say, "I'm glad you're my big brother."

Her brother stares at her in silence, eyes memorizing every feature as if he's trying to commit this moment to memory, and replies, "Me too, buttercup."

**TBC.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving into residence sucks more and more every year; I'm really happy that this is my last one. On the bright side, I managed to hunt out my laptop :)
> 
> [[F A C E C A S T]](http://babblekween.tumblr.com/wtyl)
> 
> [[P O L Y V O R E]](http://www.polyvore.com/welcome_to_your_life_theres/collection?id=5255997)

At 18, Bruce leaves Gotham.

He gallivants across the world, visiting home whenever he has the time (he keeps his promise to Felicity; his promise to be there when she needs him, his promise that no amount of distance will change  _them)_ while also attending courses at Cambridge, Vienna, and other European universities. He rarely ever stays for more than one semester. He doesn't form attachments, he doesn't make friends, and he doesn't have serious relationships.

Bruce  _does_ , however, ensure that he's photographed on the arm of a  _different_ beautiful woman every couple of months.

Louisa clicks her tongue and Alfred scolds him for it, but the image of 'Bruce Wayne: eccentric billionaire' is a necessary one. 

He's been away from home a little over two years when Alfred gives a long-suffering sigh and Bruce knows, even over the phone, that his old friend is pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I don't understand why you insist on such debauchery, Master Bruce. I really do not," He scolds. "It's not who you are."

Bruce sags under the burden of Alfred’s faith, and asks, “Haven’t given up on me, yet, Alfred?”

Alfred’s voice is strong in its conviction when he says, “ _Never_ , Master Bruce.”

Next, Bruce travels to France and attends the Sorbonne. He tells everyone he chooses France because of the French girls and nude beaches, but the real reason is, while he's received training in martial arts under various instructors since he left Gotham, Henri Ducard is something else entirely. It's said he's an excellent manhunter, the best in the world, and Bruce intends to be his apprentice.

_(_

_Bruce walks into the hole-in-the-wall pub and barely hesitates when everyone in the establishment pauses to turn and look at the young Wayne. Hairs raise on the back of his neck, but Bruce confidently makes his way toward the bar where he's been told he'd be able to find Henri Ducard. Apparently, the manhunter is something of a regular, and it appears luck is on Bruce's side just this once because the stools at the bar are all empty save one._

_"I'm looking for Henri Ducard," Bruce says firmly, his hands clenched in the pockets of his wool coat._

_The man, who's thin-faced and all sharp edges, with a cruel mouth and cold eyes, snorts into his pint. "And what does a famous playboy like Bruce Wayne need with the likes of me?" Ducard asks, his smirk savage in its brutality, but Bruce knows to rid his city of the evil that plagues its streets, he'll need some of that brutality._

_Bruce slides onto the stool beside Ducard, bravely meets his eyes in the mirror behind the bar. "Rumor has it that you're working for Interpol."_

_Ducard's off his stool before Bruce can blink, one hand wrapped around Bruce's neck as he forces him onto the bar, the other hand clicking off the safety on one of his various handguns. "And what do you know about it?" Ducard asks, his French accent thick, his shrewd eyes scowling at Bruce._

_"You're tracking a terrorist who calls himself Jeremiah," Bruce answers, not even flinching when Ducard points the gun in his face. "In three years, no one's been able to find him. They say you're the absolute best at what you do," It's for this reason Bruce wants to train with Ducard, to learn everything he knows._

_"And?" Ducard growls._

_"And I thought you might want an apprentice."_

_Ducard blinks, then blinks again, then he releases a full-on, from-the-gut laugh as he releases his hold on Bruce. "Ha. You've got guts, kid, I'll give you that." Ducard says like it's an insult, and he finishes his pint before he says, "You just might be of use to me after all."_

_It takes them seven more months, but they find Jeremiah. For seven months, the longest Bruce has stayed in one place since he left Gotham, Bruce becomes Ducard's shadow in order to learn all he can from the man. He learns how to hunt his prey, he learns how to track a man's movements, and he learns to harness some of the brutality he sees in Ducard's gaze._

_It shouldn't, but it surprises Bruce when Ducard kills Jeremiah._

_"You killed him," Bruce murmurs, voice laced with disgust._

_"Of course I killed him, it's the only way to ensure filth like him stays down." Ducard sneers, but then he sees the expression on the young man's face and his savagery, his brutality, suddenly shifts to Bruce. "You came to me," He snarls as he attacks, "To be taught how to track your enemies, to be taught how to use your body -- this soft, weak thing -- to wage war. And I've taught you, but to wage war without death... there's simply no way to win without it."_

_Bruce continues to struggle._

_"You might win battles, but not the war." Ducard insists, and for once Bruce sees him as the bitter, savage old man that became a mercenary after losing his wife.  
_

_"You murdered him in cold blood; it makes you no different than him," Bruce snarls back, "It makes you no different that the man that murdered my parents."_

_Ducard tightens his hold on the boy's throat and, when he slumps in his arms, lowers him to the ground and whispers, "If you believe that, my boy, then you truly are naive. Without death, your opponents will keep coming back again, and again, and again because they know you'll never go all the way."_

_)_

Bruce leaves France and, instead of traveling home to Gotham City for the holidays (holidays have always consisted of a hodgepodge of traditions and, even now, Bruce and his sister celebrate Hanukkah with his mother's side of the family while also joining their Uncle Phillip for Christmas), he makes his way to East Asia, eventually finding himself in Japan.

It's the first holiday season he's missed. Bruce always ensured he's home for the important times, for Christmas, Hanukkah, for Felicity's birthday, and, when he can, Felicity's dance recitals, and his little sister calls him when Alfred breaks the news to her.

Felicity rants and raves and screams and _cries_ , vowing that she'll never forgive him ever, and then she hangs up.

Bruce sighs, sits himself down on the edge of the bed, and drops his head into his hands.

Hurting Felicity is the last thing he wants to do, but he can't return to Gotham. Not yet.

But the longer he's away, the more strained his relationship with Felicity becomes.

He calls and emails and asks Felicity about school, about her friends, about some boy named Eddie she met at an after-school creative writing club whom she thinks is  _so totally cute_. He talks to her for hours, not really caring what the topic is, just so long as he can hear her voice. Sometimes he sends her care packages from the different countries he visits, filling each box with a hodgepodge of different things he thinks Felicity will like. Sometimes it's gourmet chocolates, sometimes it's pashminas in every color. One time it was a cheesy, cartoon-looking figurine of a panda.

He tries to keep the promise he made to Felicity before he left Gotham.

No matter how many miles and continents are between them, he's still her big brother, but that doesn't stop them from feeling the  _distance_ that's formed between the two of them. And that distance only increases the longer he's away from Gotham, the longer he keeps his real reason for leaving home from Felicity. And, with this fight, he's afraid that the chasm that's opened between him and Felicity is so deep that it'll be impossible to mend.

There's another, selfish reason for him not returning to Gotham, one that he keeps to himself.

Ducard's brutal actions and his words, cruel and vicious in their intent, haunt Bruce.

More often than not he has nightmares, waking up in a cold sweat with his heart pounding frantically in his chest as he struggles to control his breathing.

He wouldn't even know where to begin explaining that to his family.

Bruce stands slowly, feeling shaky on his feet after the emotional turmoil of his argument with Felicity, and goes in hunt of food. He finds a leather hotel folder on the table by the door that lists the amenities and restaurants in the hotel (three Japanese, two French, an Italian, a Chinese, and an American steak house are all listed) and he decides on one of the Japanese restaurants. He knows what Felicity would say: "You're in  _Japan,_ Bruce. You have to have actual sushi from the home of sushi at least once."

He walks into the teppanyaki restaurant, watches as the chef prepares meat, seafood and vegetables on the large iron griddle, before he moves to the most secluded chair available, one that will give him a full view of the other customers and the street outside. He's momentarily distracted, watching the ugly gray sleet sliding down the glass window pane, and startles when someone slides onto the chair beside him.

"I often wonder at the riches to be found in dark places," a voice muses, her voice silky and seductive, and Bruce can't help but stare at the woman sitting beside him. She is dark, her brown eyes like hooks for the soul, and in her gaze he finds the same darkness he finds himself at constant war with.

Bruce leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, finds his voice, and says, "I'm not interested."

The woman grins, dark red lips spreading into a wide smile, and she leans against the table, chin balanced on her fist. "You have yet to hear my proposal, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce flinches at the name, but he quickly schools his expression and demands, "Who are you?"

Her smile widens as she leans back and lounges in the chair, looking regal as if sitting upon a throne as she crosses her legs. "My name is merely Talia," She introduces, holding out her hand for a handshake, holding it there for several moments before she clasps her hands in her lap when he fails to reach for it. "But I speak for Ra's al Ghul. Have you heard the name?"

Bruce snorts, unable to control himself, because stories of the ancient warrior have followed him from Russia all the way to East Asia. "I've heard the  _legends_ ," Bruce confirms because stories of the man date back centuries, some people claiming Ra's al Ghul has lived six lifetimes. "Ra's al Ghul is a master warrior and international mercenary, feared by all the criminal underworld. Some even swear he's immortal."

[Talia](http://www.polyvore.com/wtyl_talia_al_ghul/set?id=207196021) smiles. "I assure you, Ra's al Ghul is very much real and you have not escaped his notice." She allows for the information to sink in before she continues, "The Demon's Head wishes to offer you a place among his League of Assassins."

"Not interested," Bruce assures again, expression tight.

"No. You're not, not yet," Talia assures before she pushes herself to her feet, brushing imaginary wrinkles from her navy blue dress before she returns her steady gaze to Bruce. "But this world is run by tyrants and corrupt bureaucrats, Mr. Wayne. The League is not savage and it is not cruel -- our code merely respects the natural order of things. We maintain balance because we are not bound by society's hypocrisy. Are you?"

Talia slips away before he can answer, but she stays with him. 

Even when he begins to train under Kirigi, Talia's words stay with him.

_(_

_"Your focus is laughable," Kirigi scolds. "What are you thinking of?"_

_"I don't know," Bruce grumbles, before he sighs and admits, "This girl."_

_"A girl?" Kirigi mocks, laughter tumbling from his thin lips before he stares at Bruce as though he thinks the younger man is especially stupid. "To grasp after love is to fear being alone in the face of the unknown -- but the unknown is every minute of every day. To need others, is to fear life itself. Your task is to not fear; to not grasp after love; to embrace being separate, apart."_

_Bruce furrows his brows. He does not agree._

_He has Alfred and Louisa and Felicity._

_He is not alone, and having them in his heart does not make him weak._

_Kirigi frowns as if he heard that last thought, and adds, "If you carry love, you carry weakness."_

_)_

Bruce wanders for weeks after he leaves Japan, moving from place to place, building up his image of a playboy, unable to get the image of blood red lips and brown eyes, eyes that are like hooks for the soul, out of his head. He's in Florence, at a cafe on the banks of the Arno, when Alfred calls him and tells him it's time to come home. "Someone should stand for your parents at the hearing, Master Bruce," Alfred insists.

Bruce feels numb, ice forming in his veins. 

 _Joe Chill's_ parole hearing; twelve years have been served.

It's been twelve years since his parents died and, for the first time two years, Bruce returns home to Gotham.

Bruce walks out of the airport with a single duffle bag thrown over his shoulder and stumbles slightly when he sees Alfred. His old friend looks much the same as always -- pristine suit, warm and patient smile, glasses on the edge of his nose -- but he's also older. It's only been two years since Bruce last seen the butler, but more wrinkles line Alfred's lips and eyes, and his waist is a little broader than it was before.

"You didn't have to pick me up--" Bruce starts.

Alfred snorts, somehow making it sound refined, and takes Bruce's duffle bag from him before opening the back door of the waiting town car. "And what, exactly, did you expect me to do, Master Bruce? Force you to take a taxi?" Alfred teases, his tone dry, and Bruce can't help the smile that etches into his face as he climbs into the car.

Bruce watches the city pass by the window, vaguely listening to the words Alfred's saying, his heart cracking in his chest when he sees the decay of the city, when he sees the graffiti, when he sees the homeless bundled on the streets, Wayne Tower looming overhead as if to mock him.

"We're thrilled to have you back, Master Bruce." Alfred continues, "Louisa has been in the kitchen since you said you'd be coming home for the hearing."

Something akin to affection blossoms in Bruce's chest when he thinks of Louisa, then he forces himself to ask after his sister, the one person Alfred's failed to mention, "And Felicity?"

_(_

_He remembers their fight when he'd refused to come home for the holidays, the first time he hadn't been home to see Felicity's winter recital where they did The Nutcracker, to help Louisa bake gingerbread men for the children's ward at the hospital where his father once worked, to hold his sister's hand as they lit the first candle on the menorah in honor of a mother Felicity doesn't remember, and he still remembers the way his heart had stuttered before breaking into a sprint when Felicity had hung up on him._

_Bruce had called every day for two weeks, but Felicity utilized that famous Wayne Stubbornness and insisted she'd never talk to him again, ever._

_When she finally answered the phone, he asked, "Does this mean you forgive me?"_

_Felicity had sighed, sounding so much like Louisa he'd smiled, then grumbled, "Why should I?"_

_Bruce's face had broken out into a smile before he could stop it, wide and bright, "Because I'm your brother."_

_)_

Something akin to unease crosses Alfred's face before he releases a long-suffering sigh that Bruce is all too familiar with, though he's used to it being aimed at him, _not_ Felicity. "Oh... she's a handful." Alfred says, avoiding Bruce's gaze in the rear-view mirror. "Her teachers have suggested that she be pushed ahead now in the fall when the new school year starts. She's no longer being challenged in math and science and her teachers fear her grades will decline," the butler rolls his eyes as if that's the most absurd thing he's ever heart, "Because she's bored."

Bruce nods his head (somehow not surprised, he knows how his little sister absorbs everything like a sponge) and then trails behind the butler once they reach Wayne Manor. He knows better than to insist on carrying his own bag, instead he stays a couple of feet behind Alfred, hands in his pockets as his gaze sweeps over everything, and his heart clenches when he notices how dark and empty his family home now seems. Dust-cloths cover the majority of the furniture. It now truly feels like the mausoleum he always accused it of being and Bruce can't help but wonder what happened to the life and warmth that used to fill the house; the light his little sister used to emit.

Alfred pauses briefly, watching the young man take in the emptiness of the mansion for several moments, then he's making his way up the main staircase. "Will you be heading back to Florence," Alfred asks, curious whether or not Bruce will stay at a university for more than one semester or if he'll transfer yet again for the umpteenth time, "Or could I persuade you to spend an extra night or two? Perhaps a couple of weeks? The holidays are right around the corner."

"I'm not heading back at all," Bruce says. 

"You don't like it there either, I presume," Alfred snarks, sardonic.

Bruce bites back his retort and instead doesn't answer, his brows furrowing in confusion when the butler continues walking past the wing that holds his and Felicity's bedrooms, but Alfred speaks before Bruce can ask the question on the tip of his tongue. "I've prepared the master bedroom for you, Master Bruce," Alfred says, tense, waiting for the inevitable resistance from the stubborn Wayne.

Bruce freezes, mouth curved into a frown, "My old room will be fine, Alfred."

Alfred pauses, gives a long-suffering sigh, and pinches the bridge of his nose before he turns on his heel to face Bruce. "With all due respect, sir, your parents are dead." He insists, voice stern, but his expression softens when he sees the way Bruce flinches at the reminder of Tom and Martha. "That makes Wayne Manor  _your_ house," He insists. "And it has stood patiently by while you've cavorted in and out of a dozen schools. As have I. As have Felicity and Louisa. Your  _family_."

Bruce blinks, his eyes burning, chastened.

"You may not want its weight, Master Bruce, but the Wayne family legacy is not so easily shrugged off."

Bruce stares at Alfred, a small smile etched into his face when he asks, "Haven’t given up on me, yet, Alfred?”

Alfred’s voice is as strong as ever in its conviction when he smiles and replies firmly, “ _Never_ , Master Bruce.”

Bruce swallows the emotion in his throat and watches as Alfred leaves, small smile stretched across his weathered skin, and he takes a moment to compose himself. He doesn't unpack his bag; regardless of what Alfred said, he won't be home long enough to unpack. But that doesn't mean he can't make the most out of the time he has and, it's with that thought, that he goes in search of the rest of his family. 

He finds [Louisa](http://www.polyvore.com/wtyl_louisa/set?id=216822402) in the kitchen. Like Alfred, her waist is a little wider, and there are more wrinkles around her mouth and her eyes, but her warm brown eyes sparkle when she sees him leaning in the doorway and her lips quirk into a wide smile. " _Tesoro,_ " Louisa breathes out in shock, and then she's marching across the kitchen and wrapping her arms around him, heedless of the flour she's covered in. "Oh, I have missed you, Master Bruce."

Bruce returns her hug, holding her tight, and emotions clog his throat when he rasps, "I missed you, too, Louisa."

Louisa draws back enough to peer up at Bruce, and reaches up to cup his face. "But I am not the one you missed the most, I don't think." She teases, an all-knowing smile tugging at her lips, the same one she wore when she promised Bruce that Felicity would be his favorite person in the world. "She's in the entertainment room," Louisa says, leaning up to kiss his check, using her thumb to wipe away the lipstick stain before she shoos him out of her kitchen.

Bruce huffs and makes his way towards the entertainment room and, he finds, that unlike the rest of the mansion, the entertainment room looks lived in. It's warm, with pillows and blankets piled on the couch. The coffee table is a mess of movies and what appears to be the coffee maker from the kitchen (Felicity's surely been tinkering with it, either because it's not working properly or because she wants to see how it works or both) and its laden with snacks -- cheetos, sour patch kids, the biggest bag of m&ms he's ever seen, as well as unopened cans of soda. There's a can of Mountain Dew that he knows is for him because Felicity hates the stuff.

Speaking of, Felicity's on the couch, already in her pajamas [(which seemingly consists of an oversized t-shirt that exclaims MORE COFFEE and pants that are royal blue and covered in hundreds of lips that look so totally ridiculous and yet so Felicity) ](http://www.polyvore.com/felicity_wayne/set?id=195647918)with her feet kicked up on the coffee table while she slouches back, trying to go as boneless as the human body will allow while she stares intently at the screen. His heart clenches momentarily and then he feels sort of warm all over at the _normalcy_ of it all.

An almighty roar blares from the speakers, an odd mix of a lion and an elephant, and his lips quirk in amusement when he realizes his sister is watching _Jurassic Park._ Felicity had decided the first time she seen the film that she wanted to be a paleontologist before she realized there wasn't an actual park with baby Little Foots. She'd also briefly wanted to be a dental hygienist before she settled on being a fairy princess.

"That is...quite the spread you have there, buttercup.” Bruce muses after debating with himself for several moments what to say to Felicity, before blurting out the first thing that crosses his mind because he hates this... _hesitance_ that he now feels with her. Felicity's head peaks over the back of the couch when she hears his voice and he perches next to her and mimics her position, kicking his feet up on the coffee table as he slouches against the back of the couch. "Still firmly on the side of the dinosaurs?" Bruce asks, lips twitching.

Felicity stares at him, blue eyes so like Martha's sweeping over him from head to toe, and then she returns her gaze to the television, smile tugging at her lips. "Yes," she nods, wild brown curls falling around her face as she does so (and when did she stop wearing her hair pulled back away from her face? What happened to the ponytails and the braids? What else has he missed?) "These idiots locked themselves on an island with deadly lizards. They deserve to be eaten," she deadpans.

Bruce smiles and Felicity's happy to note that it's a _real_ smile, maybe not as wide and and carefree as it once was, but it's real and it soothes an ache within her heart that's been left to fester since their fight a year ago. It'd felt weird, not talking to Bruce. But the longer they went without talking, the longer they went out without _seeing_ each other, the deeper the chasm that had opened between them became.

Bruce is silent for only a second or so before he muses, "It's really stupid that they look like lizards."

It's an old argument, an olive branch of sorts, and Felicity tucks her feet up under her before leaning against his chest. "It's probably because they used frog DNA, _Einstein_."

He breathes out a laugh and musses her hair. "Which is _stupid_ , Fee." Bruce insists, wide smile etched into his face when he feels Felicity shake with laughter. "Everyone knows you can't clone dinosaurs by inserting frog DNA, it's-- dinosaurs were more avian than reptile. They _say that_ in the movie."

"I know," Felicity soothes, then she puts her arms around his chest and gives him a tight hug, "But I don't think it would have had quite the same _scare_ effect if they were being chased by a giant turkey, Bruce."

Bruce considers that. "What if it were a giant kangaroo?"

He's laughing before his sister punches his arm.

**TBC.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[F A C E C A S T]](http://babblekween.tumblr.com/wtyl)
> 
>  
> 
> [[P O L Y V O R E]](http://www.polyvore.com/welcome_to_your_life_theres/collection?id=5255997)

Bruce flinches when the cold winter air hits his face as he steps out into the alley alone, but then his mother is there in front of him, taking hold of his larger hand with her own, and he can’t help but think that’s wrong because his hand was never bigger than hers but then she’s cupping his cheek and asking, “Bruce, sweetie, what’s wrong?”

His brows furrow together because there’s nothing wrong, his father is by his side and his mother is in front of him, cupping his cheek, and this is the safest he’s felt in years but he can’t escape the feeling of _wrongness_ that threatens to bring him to his knees.

“No, no, it was me.” His father assures before he places a comforting hand on the back of his son’s neck, just letting it rest there, solid, heavy, a comforting reminder that he’s still there, the heat of his palm purging Bruce of the chill that has coiled its way around his heart, “A little opera goes a long way, doesn’t it, Bruce,” He winks.

“Honestly, Tom, it wasn’t _that_ bad.” [Martha](http://www.polyvore.com/wtyl_martha_wayne/set?id=216818634) scolds as she smacks his arm, and the action is so familiar that Bruce feels his mouth curve into a smile, and then his mother is wrapping her arm around his waist and reaching up to press a kiss to his cheek -- _and no that’s wrong, she had wrapped her arm around his shoulder, kissing the top of his head_ –- before they start walking up the alley.

His mother asks him if he liked the music, and she’s looking at him with such love in her blue, blue eyes that Bruce thinks he’d say anything if it meant she would look at him like that for the rest of his life. But he’s silent too long and his mother’s shaking her head, voice laced with amusement when she says, “Never mind, surely you agree with your father. You probably think it was lame.”

“It _was_ kinda lame,” Bruce admits.

His father snorts, “There’s no such thing as _kinda_ , Bruce. It was _so totally_ lame.”

His mother releases a long-suffering sigh and it reminds him so much of Alfred that Bruce is already smiling when his mother half-heartedly complains, “You two are so judgemental. Honestly, you two are two peas in a--“

Bruce freezes, his mother’s gasp feeling like barbed wire wrapping itself around his heart, and his mind is racing because he knows what’s about to happen and he’s powerless to stop it when his father steps in front of him and his mother, warning, “I said _take it easy--"_

 _Bang_.

“ _THOMAS!_ ” His mother screeches and then she’s falling to her knees beside him, flinching when the man dives for her pearl necklace, the one her husband gifted to her on their last anniversary, the one she never takes off.

 _Bang_.

Bruce watches the pearls fall one by one onto the wet pavement and suddenly he’s dropping to his knees because his mother is limp on the wet ground beside his father and he’s numb to the world around him because he can’t watch this again because it nearly destroyed him the first time.

 _Bang_.

Bruce flinches when the gunshot echoes in head because that sound has been the soundtrack of his nightmares since he was ten-years-old but then he hears a stuttered cry, one that slices through him, and he looks over his shoulder just in time to see the way her brows furrow, her mouth curved into a frown as she looks down at the hole in her in her stomach, blood coating her fingers and soaking the bubble-gum pink pea coat their Aunt Donna bought her a couple of years ago for Hanukkah.

Bruce feels his heart _shatter_ , an open fault line, and the noise that leaves his mouth somewhere between terror and madness as it echoes in the alley and drowns out the sound of escaping footsteps. 

She starts to fall, her knees giving out, and Bruce races to catch her, sliding to the ground as he cradles her in his arms as tight as he dares, begging her not to leave him too as she struggles to breathe, gasping and choking and so pale in his arms.

“Felicity, Fee, Fee, c’mon. I got you, I got you, just please stay, _please_.” Bruce begs because the whole front of her jacket is soaked red and she’s his _little sister_ and he _promised_ his parents he would look after her because that’s his job. “I’m going to take care of you, I promised I would take of you, but you need to stay with me, buttercup. Felicity,” he cries because she’s not responding and he barely notices the tears carving paths down his cheeks as he tightens his hold on her, “No, no, oh god no, _Fee._ ”

Bruce _screams--_

He jolts up in bed, panting, sweating, his sister's name on his lips and his eyes wide as he looks around his dark room -- _no, no, it's_ _his parents' room, except it's not anymore because they're dead --_ his gaze darting everywhere, searching for Joe Chill. But there's nothing, no one, just furniture, and shadows because Joe Chill is in prison. He's locked far, far away in Blackgate where he can't hurt anyone else; where he can't hurt Bruce's _family_ anymore.

Except, that might not always be the case.

Because they want to set him _free_.

Bruce sinks back down into the mattress, covers his face with his hands. Joe Chill's been locked up for twelve years (not long enough, not nearly long enough, not after what he stole from Bruce, after what he stole from Bruce _and_ Felicity) and his little sister is alive. Felicity is _safe_. She wasn't there when it happened. She was home safe with Alfred and Louisa, and she's going to _remain_ safe because Bruce can't lose her the way he lost their parents.

He rolls out of bed and stands, slowly, shaky on his feet, and walks towards the ensuite that's attached to the room, shedding himself of his t-shirt and plaid flannel pants along the way. His heart still pounds in his chest as he raises his brown eyes to the man in the mirror, but his eyes don't linger for very long because he doesn't want to look at the face of a person he rarely recognizes at himself.

_THOMAS!_

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut when his mother's voice, so terrified and so heartbroken because that's what _Joe Chill_ had done to her, echoing in his head as he backs away from the mirror. The water in the shower warms quickly when he turns it on, and he steps into it, letting the heated water beat against his back as he tries to keep his fear in check because he isn't a scared little boy anymore.

But if that's true, why won't his hands stop shaking?

He stares at them, fists opening and closing them slowly several times as he stares at the callouses that line his hands, callouses that no one would expect to find blemishing the hands of Bruce Wayne, an eccentric playboy billionaire hell-bent on spending his inheritance as quickly as he can. But that's not who he is. It's what the rest of the world, what his _family_ , sees, but that's not who he is. He's the one that's going to rid Gotham of the evil, the _filth_ , that stole his parents from him when his sister was still an infant.

The water pounds down on his head and he quickly goes through the motions, lathers his skin with the same sandalwood body wash he remembers his father using, allows the familiar scent to tickle his nose and calm his nerves. He stands there, still and silent and _broken_ , until he's shivering, allowing himself one moment of weakness as he ignores the tears he refuses to admit are falling, and then he reaches out to turn off the water.

He reaches for a towel and dries off his skin before he wraps the towel around his waist. Steam billows out of the bathroom as he walks back into the bedroom and, by the time he's ready to leave, once he's wearing a suit that's just bit too tight across his shoulders and has his father's old watch strapped to his wrist, his mask is back in place. And if he glances into his sister's room before he leaves, no one needs to know.

He prepares for the worst -- Felicity choking on her own blood, her jacket soaked with red as she fades away in his arms -- and his relief is instantaneous when he sees her. Felicity's sprawled on her bed, star-fished in the middle and taking up more room than a person her size needs, her blankets coiled around her legs, and she's cuddled into the plush panda he'd won for her one Felicity Friday when he'd taken her to Amusement Mile. It was the day before her sixth birthday.

He exhales softly and closes the door.

(

_Last night, Felicity had lifted her chin in that impossibly brave way of hers and announced that she planned to attend the parole hearing with Bruce, insisting that Thomas and Martha had been her parents too and she didn't want Bruce to be alone._

_Bruce loves her for it, but he'd put his foot down, and Felicity had no choice but to accept his decision once he and Alfred and presented a united front. That someone needs to stand for the Wayne family is undeniable, but the press is going to be ruthless in their hunt for a story. Felicity doesn't need to be there when they lament about the broken, orphaned children left behind by Joe Chill's actions._

)

But when Bruce makes his way down the main staircase to the foyer, he isn't surprised to find Alfred waiting for him. "The young miss was right, Master Bruce," Alfred says, chin tilted stubbornly as if _daring_ the younger man to fight him on this. "You shouldn't be alone."

Bruce's mouth curves into a small smile, and he accepts the support and leans back into Alfred's touch when the old butler places a hand on the back of his neck. "Thank you, Alfred," Bruce says, and it's not enough. Not nearly enough. Not for strong, gentle Alfred who has raised both Bruce and Felicity for over a decade, who has loved them both fiercely from the moment he first heard their cries echo through Wayne Manor. Alfred who wiped their tears and tended their hurts, who had stood them on their own two feet and showed them how to be strong when the entire world was waiting for them to fall apart.

"I'm glad you haven't given up on me, Alfred," Bruce adds.

Alfred offers his own smile, and then winks as he opens the door to the town car, " _Never_ , Master Bruce."

Bruce shakes his head in bafflement because he still isn't sure what he's done to deserve such devotion. He could love Alfred just for the way he loves them, he and Felicity both, the way his fingers brush Felicity's wild curls away from her face, and the gentle way he used to clean Bruce's bruised knuckles after another fight at school. He could love Alfred for the way he loves him and his sister, but Bruce has known Alfred his entire life and loves him for himself. His calm in the face of disaster, his dry wit, and his ability to see the best in people. His ability to see the best in _Bruce_.

Bruce stares out the window and watches as they enter the city, thankful that Alfred doesn't bother to try and initiate a conversation, and this time when he sees the decay of the city, when he sees the graffiti, when he sees the homeless bundled on the streets, he's reminded that it wasn't _just_ his family that had suffered the loss of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

Alfred pulls off to the side of the road and he's out of the car and around the other side to open Bruce's door before Bruce has the chance to protest, but he's thankful for his old friend, for his comfort when he rests his hand on the back of Bruce's neck once more as they make their way towards the courthouse, his hand a warm and solid reminder that he's not alone as the press yell questions at him.

"What are your thoughts on the DA's decision to—"

"— feel that Mr. Chill has earned his freedom?"

"Joe Chill's a murderer. Can any of us trust—"

"— is it true that you've returned to the city to take your place at Wayne Enterprises?"

"No one in this city can deny that the death of Thomas and Martha Wayne—"

"— earning a playboy status. Is that what you think your parents _died_ for?"

"Do you have anything to say to the man who _gunned down_ your parents—"

"Where were you when—"

Bruce clenches his jaw and ignores the words the press throw at him. He doesn't react to the snide comments about the playboy status he's been building since he left Gotham, he doesn't flinch at the sound of Joe Chill's name, instead choosing to keep his head high and his eyes front as he walks into the courthouse. The entire time Alfred is a warm and comforting presence at his back. He knows everyone's looking at him, hears the whispers all around him, but Alfred makes it bearable.

_Head high, eyes front, don't let them see you cry, be strong._

Alfred excuses himself to go in search of a bathroom, after asking no less than four times if Bruce will be fine on his own, leaving Bruce in an abandoned corridor not far from the courtroom he knows a small panel will decide the fate of Joe Chill. He's all alone and he paces back and forth, back and forth, until his knees threaten to give out and he sits on a bench, his eyes closed shut and his posture rigid.

"Are you alright, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce doesn't flinch. He'd heard the approaching footsteps, but he can't help but look up in surprise when the person actually bothers to address him. He blinks, then blinks again, and then ice settles in his veins when he recognizes the man from the news. He's tall, almost as tall as Bruce, with dark brown hair that matches his eyes, and an honest smile that has earned him the love of Gotham.

Harvey Dent, a rising assistant district attorney.

Gotham has high hopes for this man, and whispers on the street call him Gotham's incorruptible white knight.

"Fine," Bruce answers, mask in place, "You're the ADA, right?"

"Harvey Dent," Dent corrects, offering Bruce a handshake when the Wayne heir climbs to his feet. "I have to say, I'm surprised to see you here."

Bruce knows Dent isn't the only one surprised that the eldest Wayne child returned to Gotham. He knows that the press and the inhabitants of Gotham had both agreed that he was _too busy_ gallivanting around the world with a beautiful woman on his arm to notice, and as a result Bruce can't help the chill that coats his words when he says, "Someone at this proceeding should stand for my parents."

Dent's face softens. "Mr. Wayne, we all loved your parents. Gotham feels their loss more and more with each passing day--" everyone always says that; claims that the city misses his beloved parents and Bruce _hates_ it because it's not the same, it's wasn't _their_ family that Joe Chill destroyed on a cold night in December, _no one understands_ "--and what Chill did was unforgivable."

Bruce's own face hardens, "Then why is your boss letting him go?"

 _This world is run by tyrants and corrupt bureaucrats, Mr. Wayne,_ Talia's voice whispers.

"Because in prison he shared a cell with Carmine Falcone," Dent says, his face contrite, and it's clear that he hates that he needs to release one murderer to catch another, but there's no denying that organized crime is a plague sweeping through Gotham. "And he learned things about Falcone, things that no one else knows, and he's promised to testify against him in exchange for early parole."

 _We are not bound by society's hypocrisy_ , Talia insists, brown eyes burning, _Are you?_

His chest rises and falls, then Alfred appears in the corner of his eye, looking older than ever and looking so, so worried, and Bruce snarls, "Fine. Do whatever you want with your  _broken_ system of justice, but that  _monster_ murdered my parents and I _cannot_ let that stand." Bruce brushes past Dent and ignores the mixture of concern and pity on the man's face as he walks into the courtroom, Alfred at his heels.

Bruce's knuckles are white, and his fists are starting to shake by the time the panel walks in. It's a small bureaucratic proceeding with no more than ten observers, himself and Alfred included, and Bruce stares daggers at the back of Chill's head, flinching when Alfred reaches out and covers one of his hands with his own, refusing to move his weathered hand away even when Bruce's fist fails to unclench under Alfred's touch.

The District Attorney, Hamilton Hill, a man with a cruel mouth and cold, dead eyes that are set on someday running the mayor's office with his iron fist, climbs to his feet and addresses the panel. "Given the exemplary prison records of Mr. Chill, the twelve years already served, as well as his extraordinary level of cooperation with one of this office's most important investigations," Hill says passionately, "We at the DA’s office strongly endorse Mr. Chill's petition for early release." 

The Chairman of the panel nods and consults the paperwork that Hill handed him, face impassive and shrewd as he reads through the information that was provided to the District Attorney’s office by Joe Chill.

Bruce is sure it details all of the evidence that has been collected against Falcone, praises Joe Chill for coming forward with the invaluable information, selling Joe Chill to the panel the same way Hill sells his clients to a judge and jury.

That’s when the man in question speaks up, climbing to his feet, “Your Honor,” Chill begins, staring down at his hands, ignoring Hill’s attempts to quiet him, “Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could take back what I did. I was desperate,” He rasps as if that excuses what he’d done, “But a lot of people were back then. That don’t change what I did, but I _am_ sorry.”

The Chairman nods, leaning back in his seat as his gaze sweeps over Chill, reading the sincerity in both the man's words and weathered face. “I gather that a member of the Wayne family is here today,” the chairman announces, and the courtroom is filled with whispers as everyone turns and studies Bruce, “Does he have anything to say?”

Chill turns in his seat and turns to face Bruce, but winces when he sees the cold brown eyes that are staring back at him.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred whispers softly, coaxing, _pleading_.

Bruce shakes his head and rises, shaking off his trusted butler's hold, his brown eyes cold and filled with a lifetime's worth of hatred, deaf to the whispers that sound all around him, his eyes focused solely on Chill. All he sees is an old man's weathered face that is filled with regret, and Bruce feels _cold_. Aware of the eyes that are on him, Bruce moves past Alfred and walks out of the courtroom, his fists clenched, his nails leaving crescent-shaped slices in their wake.

He has no words for Chill, who can't bring his parents back.

And he has no words for the corrupt bureaucrats that are letting him go, bound to society’s hypocrisy.

Alfred is silent on the way out of the courthouse, and Bruce raises his chin -- _head high, eyes front, don't let them see you cry, be strong --_ when the reporters hound him for details of what happened in the courtroom. Bruce doesn't bother to answer them because they'll know soon enough. He climbs into the back of the town car, his lip trembles, his hands clench into fists, but otherwise, he does not react. He is numb to the world around him, ice forming in his veins.

He takes the stairs two at a time once he reaches the peaceful solitude of the mansion, his bedroom -- _no his parent's bedroom_ \-- door slamming behind him, and he nearly falls over from the shock of finding [Felicity](http://www.polyvore.com/wtyl_martha_wayne/set?id=216818634) curled up in the chair in front of the fireplace. Her wild brown curls are pulled back from her face in a familiar low ponytail, and she's wearing a pair of baggy _Beauty and the Beast_ pajamas, curled up with a beige throw blanket wrapped around her like a cape as she reads _The Hobbit_ , panda slippers resting on the floor by her feet.

He scowls at her presence, not in the mood, and she raises her chin in that impossibly brave way of hers. Bruce huffs and scowls and curls his hands into fists as the need to act roars to life, but Felicity does not look away. She doesn't hide from him, doesn't avoid his cold gaze the way Joe Chill had. Felicity closes the book and curls her fingers over the spine and stares, unyielding.

Bruce is proud of her, but the image of her, pale and choking on her own blood, her jacket soaked with red as she fades away in his arms, resurfaces in his mind and he can't stay here. He _can't_. He stalks into the attached bathroom and turns on the faucet, breathing deep and splashing cold water on his flushed face, and then he _breathes_. He cannot stay in Gotham. He needs to leave. He needs to acquire the skills he needs to tear Gotham's corrupt justice system down to the foundations so that the city can rebuild, _heal_ , and he cannot do that in Gotham City as Bruce Wayne.

When he prowls back into the bedroom, Felicity climbs to her feet, "Clearly the hearing went well."

Bruce ignores her words, laced with heavy sarcasm, and stalks around the room, collecting his belongings that have somehow managed to scatter throughout the entire room despite the fact he's been home less than a week. "See, I knew I should have been there. You shouldn't have had to face that alone," Felicity huffs, so loving and supportive even in her ire that Bruce can't help but think that he doesn't deserve her, "Bruce, _stop_. Would you just _look_ at me?"

Bruce stops, exhales slowly, and then turns to face his little sister because he has never been able to deny his little sister anything. Her gaze sweeps over him and whatever she sees softens her expression, replaces her ire with concern, and suddenly she's walking towards him with their mother's concerned blue eyes trained on his face and Bruce _flinches_.

Felicity pauses, head tipped to the side, her ponytail sweeping down over her shoulder, "Bruce?"

Bruce shakes his head and goes about throwing his belongings into his single duffle bag before he throws it over his shoulder and walks out of the room, his little sister hot on his heels as she demands. Demands to know what's wrong, demands to know where he's going, demands that he _stop and talk to her_. She's crying, he can hear it in her voice, and it threatens to steal the breath from his chest, but he has to leave so he can protect her.

_Felicity pale and choking on her own blood, her jacket soaked with red as she fades away in his arms._

Alfred's concerned tones mix with Felicity's, and suddenly Alfred and Louisa are there too, following him and asking him to just talk to them, but Bruce ignores them and throws the front door open and makes his way towards one the numerous cars parked out front. Snowflakes have started falling, and the cold winter air matches the iciness he feels inside as he throws his duffle bag into the backseat and climbs into the driver's seat.

"Bruce," Felicity cries, " _Come back_."

It's the first request he denies his little sister.

**TBC.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the angst. I am a horrible, horrible person and I promise I'll fix it. Eventually.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[F A C E C A S T]](http://babblekween.tumblr.com/wtyl)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [[P O L Y V O R E]](http://www.polyvore.com/welcome_to_your_life_theres/collection?id=5255997)

Bruce grunts when his back slams into the stone floor.

Air rushes from his lungs in a pained hiss but he knows better than to ask for a moment to catch his breath -- _"death does not wait for you to be ready, it is not considerate and it is not fair,"_ Talia had scolded him the first time they sparred. _"Survival and death are the only outcomes, and this makes death your opponent"_ \-- and Bruce wastes no time twisting her leg off his body now, one hand on her ankle, the other on her knee.

He rolls to his feet before she can retaliate and he has mere seconds to prepare himself before she dives at him, swinging at him with her fists, fierce and uncontrolled, like a raging fire. But her brown eyes are cold, like ice.

"Mind your surroundings," [Talia](https://www.polyvore.com/wtyl_talia_al_ghul/set?id=210253320) reminds Bruce firmly when he nearly stumbles when he sidesteps her attack, his foot catching on the uneven stone floor. "Always," She continues, and then she's charging at him once more. "You next opponent may not be as reluctant to scar that pretty face of yours, فارس الظلام."

When Bruce journeyed to Nanda Parbat, he had to remake himself, leaving Bruce Wayne in his past.

فارس الظلام is the name he chose for himself. _Dark Knight._

If Harvey Dent is to be Gotham City's incorruptible white knight, then he will become Gotham's _Dark Knight_.

Her silent guardian that lives in the shadows; a watchful protector that is not bound by society's hypocrisy or laws.

Talia’s foot flies towards his face and Bruce ducks, and then he grabs her leg, twisting to anchor it to his side. "Perhaps _you_ should mind _your_ surroundings, Talia, instead of focusing on my _pretty face_.” Bruce's mouth curves into a smile when she snorts, and he uses her distraction to use his body weight to send the both of them careening to the floor. “Though, candlelight? Privacy? Hand-to-hand combat? I can’t think of a better date.”

Brown eyes twinkle mischievously and Bruce attempts to roll away, _quickly_ , but he isn’t fast enough. Talia slams her elbow into his thigh and that extra second is all it takes for her to gain the upper hand. She uses him as leverage as she twists his body into the air, scissoring her legs around his waist, and then his back is slamming into the stone floor for the third time in ten minutes.

Bruce struggles for a moment (uselessly, he will admit) before he knocks his knuckles against her thigh twice.

Talia releases him and immediately rolls effortlessly to her feet. Her dark locks tumble from her once orderly braid, but otherwise, she is as composed as always. “ _That_ is how you choose to connote your affection? Hand-to-hand combat?” She asks, amused, her brow arched while her wine-colored mouth curves into a faint smile. “And here I thought you were something of a Casanova before you journeyed to Nanda Parbat.”

Bruce breathes heavily, remaining on his back, but affection and amusement war for dominance on his face. “I’m merely speaking your language, Talia.”

Talia's brown eyes roll upwards in exasperation even as she holds out a hand to help him to his feet, which Bruce accepts gracefully. "You _are_ getting better, beloved," Talia deflects as she hauls him to his feet. He's used to it and knows that, even though she cares for him and claims him as her beloved, Talia will always view love as a weakness she cannot afford to have.

“Sure,” Bruce huffs disbelieving, “Because from where I was standing, you still kicked my ass.”

“There will never come a day where you defeat me in hand-to-hand combat,” Talia answers confidently, that familiar twinkle sparkling in her eyes. “I am Heir to the Demon. However, you would not die as quickly today as you would have three years ago.”

Bruce stills when her words penetrate his mind. Sometimes Bruce cannot believe it's been three years since he left Gotham City for the second time, determined to gain the skills necessary to rid his home of the crime that litters her streets, the corruption that has wormed its way into the justice system. Accepting Ra's al Ghul's offer to be trained as a member of the League seemed like the next logical step into becoming Gotham's protector but, when he arrived in Nanda Parbat, he admits now that he had believed the men and women who turned to the League to be cowards. Too afraid to face their own lives and instead seeking a new life and a new name, but instead of Bruce has found a life free from the weight, the _hypocrisy_ , that once threatened to choke him.

Bruce does miss his family -- Felicity is fifteen-years-old now and it threatens to bring him to his knees when he thinks of all the things he must have missed, and then there's Louisa and her wide smile and Alfred, who never gave up on Bruce, not once -- but he doesn't miss Gotham. It has been years since he lived there and longer still since he thought of the city as _home_. In Nanda Parbat, Bruce feels _free_.

Bruce startles when Talia’s hand curls around his wrist. “Beloved?” Talia murmurs, her brows furrowed, but that is all she says, she doesn’t ask him what caused his mind to wander. It’s one of the things that Bruce admires the most about Talia. She _never_ pushes. Where Felicity sister would needle and poke and whine until he talked about whatever-it-was he had no interest in talking about; where Alfred and Louisa would stare at him, unyielding, in uncomfortable silence; Talia merely leaves the option up to him.

Talia listens when he needs someone to listen, but she has never pushed him for answers he doesn’t want to give.

It _baffles_ Bruce how a woman who is so cold and calculating and cunning -- and she is, Talia is all of those things and more -- can also be kind and considerate to those she deems worthy of her affection when she chooses to be.

Talia opens her mouth to say something, but then she closes her mouth and her gaze moves to something over his shoulder.

Bruce tenses and the hairs on the back of his neck raise because they are no longer alone, and he turns slowly, in a way that keeps him between the intruder and Talia (she doesn’t need his protection, she never will, but he’s a protector at heart and he will always protect those that he loves) and he doesn’t put down his guard even when he realizes it’s [Nyssa](http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/set?id=210252579).

(

_While Talia looks like Ra's with the gentle curve of her chin and the shape of her mouth --  Bruce is sure, if he ever saw either Ra's smile, his smile would be a mirror image of Talia's, but the chances of that ever happening are slim because, as Ra's once told Bruce, Atlas does not smile --  Nyssa bears no obvious resemblance to her father or her elder half-sister._

_Talia's told Bruce the story: of how Ra's met Irina Raatko during his travels in Russia, of how he brought Irina to Nanda Parbat to become his concubine. Irina Raatko had been beautiful and possessed a fiery spirit that Ra's had craved wholly, a spirit that she had passed on to their only living child, Nyssa. Ra's had been disappointed that the child had not been the son he craved, the son he thought he needed to succeed him, but he loved Nyssa as he loved Talia, and Nyssa had trained alongside their father's warriors until such a time she was old enough to hold a position similar to the one held by Talia._

)

Nyssa's mouth is curved into a frown and her eyes appear almost black as she sweeps her eyes over Bruce. She's never liked him, not from the moment he was first welcomed into her home, and her dislike of him has only increased since Talia named Bruce her _Beloved._

"فارس الظلام," Nyssa nods curtly, hands folded in front of her, and then she tilts her chin upwards in a mixture of defiance and stubbornness that never fails to remind Bruce of his own sister; he's sure, if they ever met, Nyssa and Felicity could rule the world. Or destroy it. "I am sorry to interrupt," She says, though she sounds anything but apologetic, "But my father wishes to speak with you."

Talia walks forward and offers her sister a warm smile (Talia looks no more than ten or so years older than Nyssa, but he knows that she's much older than she looks, having _physically_ aged no more than five years in the past couple of decades thanks to the use of the Lazarus Pit. Talia looks to be in her early thirties but in reality her age is double that) but her voice holds authority when she says, "He will depart momentarily, sister."

Nyssa looks at Talia, holding her gaze for a moment before she nods, satisfied.

Still, Nyssa scowls at Bruce once more before she leaves the room.

“You know,” Bruce muses, when Nyssa leaves without throwing a snide remark his way, “I think she’s finally beginning to warm up to me.”

Talia's mouth curves into an amused smile as she makes her way to his side, stretching up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. "I would be more afraid should the day come where Nyssa does _not_ scowl at your very presence, beloved." She teases before she reaches up to cup his face, pressing a chaste kiss and then another to his mouth before she says, "Come find me when my father is through with you." Talia smiles as she pulls away, her mischievous eyes promising more.  
 

* * *

 

Bruce stands in the shadows and listens as Ra's sentences a traitor to death -- the man has been selling information to Damien Darhk, Ra's al Ghul's most bitter enemy, and Bruce knows the man's death won't be swift  _or_ painless -- but his face remains impassive even when Ra's shakes his head in disappointment when the traitor pleads for his life.

"You are a disgrace to the livery you wear," Ra's snarls. "A warrior should face their death with honor or, at the very least,  _dignity_."

Ra's dips his chin in a curt nod and two warriors immediately step forward and drag the sniffling man away, and then he turns to face the Lazarus Pit, clasping his hands behind his bad. Bruce walks into the room and immediately drops down to one knee, bowing his head as he waits for Ra’s to acknowledge him, and, without turning to look at Bruce, Ra's says, "You believe I judged him too harshly."

Bruce frowns because it’s true, he still does not believe that _murder_ is the answer when it comes to cleansing the world of corruption and evil, but he’s not really in the mood for another philosophical debate with Ra's. “I believe that to choose to end someone’s life is too damned _easy_. There’s a part of me that thinks every murderer and criminal alike should be subjected to every horror they’ve inflicted on others,” Bruce admits, thinking of how desperately he’d wished for Joe Chill’s head on a spike, “But I also know that, if I allow myself to go down that road, I’ll never come back from it.”

Ra’s turns around and tilts his head to the side as he regards Bruce, and no one would be able to refute how old Ra’s truly is because all his long years are suddenly visible in his blue eyes. “Your compassion is a weakness that your enemies will not share,” Ra’s warns.

Bruce nods. “That’s why it’s so important,” he insists, “It’s what separates me from them.”

Ra’s doesn’t say anything for several long moments, but then he gestures for Bruce to follow him as he walks out onto the veranda that overlooks Nanda Parbat. “You know, many lifetimes ago, I shared your ideas. I was eleven years of age when I killed my first man. I still remember the look on his face when the light went out behind his eyes.” He twists his ring around his finger, the one that signifies his role as the Demon’s Head. “Such a sudden change, almost imperceptible, the moment between life and death. And I felt ashamed.”

Bruce watches Ra’s profile, sees the sincerity in the warrior’s face.

“I had stolen from that man the most precious gift of all -- life.” Ra’s continues, but then his expression turns stony as he revisits a day long since passed. “But I also felt something else. I felt pride in what I had done because I had taken up arms against someone who sought to do ill against my family.”

Bruce looks away then and refocuses his attention on the full moon in the sky, but he still feels Ra’s all-knowing gaze.

“An action, I am sure, you often wish you had been able to take when a monster did harm to your own family. We are not so different, you and I." Ra's declares. "A man wanted to harm that which was mine and I realized what I had done was necessary. You see, I had replaced evil with death, and that is what the League exists to do. It is a force of change that has been silently manipulating global events for hundreds of years.”

“And you don’t regret it?”

“No,” Ra’s answers honestly after contemplating his answer. “I have killed several thousand more men since then, and the world truly is better for it.”

Bruce thinks of the filth that litters Gotham’s streets with corruption and crime and can’t help but think maybe Ra’s is correct, that maybe the world _would_ be better off without those monsters in it, but then the words Joe Chill said at his parole hearing come rushing back, and Bruce wonders how many of those monsters act out of desperation, wonder how many of them would make the change if only they were given _the chance_.

“You have a strength born of years of grief and anger, فارس الظلام, the strength of a man denied revenge against the man who executed unforgivable ill against those you hold dear.” Ra’s continues, his blue eyes hooks for the soul, and Bruce finds himself unable to look away. “It is for this reason that I believe you to be the true successor I have been looking for."

Bruce stills, brown eyes wide as he looks at Ra's.

"I have ignored the signs for as long as I can, but the Lazarus Pit restores me less and less each time." Ra's declares, expression troubled. "My mouth tastes of rot and, as much as I love both of my daughters, they are not fit to wear the title of the Demon’s Head. Nyssa rules with her heart and is therefore _weak_. Whereas Talia…" He shakes his head as he thinks of his eldest living child. "Talia is Nyssa’s opposite in every way. She would lead the League without mercy, even in times when mercy is the right path. I need a _man_ to assume my position when I am gone." Ra's pauses and then turns his gaze on Bruce. "فارس الظلام, I need you to be Heir to the Demon.”

Bruce’s heart pounds in his chest and his hands curl into fists, his nails leaving crescent-shaped cuts on his palm, the sting grounding him as he shakes his head. “My place is in Gotham,” He answers and for the first time in three years, he believes that without a doubt. “I made a promise to rid my home of the evil that _murdered_ my parents and I intend to see that promise to fruition.”

“With the League at your command you could replace the evil that fills your home with death, but even you must realize there is no redemption for Gotham.” Ra’s murmurs, voice gentle, and then he clasps a hand on Bruce’s shoulder in a comforting manner. “You understand the forces of decay. Cities like Gotham are in their death throes. Chaotic and grotesque; _beyond saving_.”

He remembers the decay of the city the last time he was in Gotham, he remembers the way his heart cracked when he saw the graffiti; when he saw the homeless bundled on the streets in the winter chill, Wayne Tower looming overhead as if to mock him. “Beyond saving?” Bruce asks, serious. “You really believe that?”

Ra’s turns his gaze to the harshly beautiful landscape of Nanda Parbat. “You came to us because the land of your birth was choking you with its corruption.” His brows furrow, his mouth a pursed straight line. “It is not right that one must come so far to see the world as it is _meant_ to be." He turns his gaze to Bruce, “But the important thing is whether _you_ believe it. Can Gotham be saved, or is she an ailing ancestor whose time has run?”

Bruce furrows his brow together and _thinks_. “But…” His voice trails off and he wonders if he’d be able to do it, to turn his back on Gotham and remain in Nanda Parbat.

But then he remembers Felicity, his little sister who is now fifteen-years-old, and he thinks of all the things he must have missed, and he wonders if he'd be able to stand not being there for the rest of Felicity's life. And then there's Louisa, sweet Louisa who loves him fiercely and calls him _Tesoro_ , her treasure. And Alfred, stern but gentle Alfred, who has never lost faith in him once.

_Haven’t given up on me, yet, Alfred?_

_Never, Master Bruce._

Bruce frowns, his brows furrowed when he turns to look at Ra's. "But why me?"

"Because you are most worthy, that has been proven beyond any doubt," Ra's says, "And because my precious daughter loves you."

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Bruce makes his way to Talia's chambers.

[Talia](http://www.polyvore.com/wtyl_talia_al_ghul/set?id=210250941) is draped across the cushioned seating around the great fireplace, looking softer than she had when they sparred, her hair curling in wet tendrils at the base of her neck and she's wearing a rose-colored kimono dress that hugs her curves. It makes Bruce's heart clench in his chest, seeing her like this, knowing that he's the only one that gets to see her this way, vulnerable and soft and _human_.

She closes her book then smiles at Bruce. "You took your time, beloved. You missed the bath."

Bruce's mouth curves into a wry smile as he joins her in front of the fire, and then he moves to nuzzle the fragrant nook of Talia's neck. "It was entirely your father's fault," Bruce says as he kisses Talia's pulse. She smells of lavender and it does wonders to ease the tension in his shoulders, the scent of the fragrant bubbles from her bath providing the same comfort that his mother's perfume once had.

"That may be, but your tardiness is _unforgivable_. I waited, and the water was chilled when I _finally_ gave up hope that you would join me," Talia growls, but then Bruce drags his teeth over her pulse point and her head rolls to the side, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Talia is quiet for a moment, simply luxuriating in the attention from Bruce's mouth before she gasps, “Therefore, you, as my beloved, are obligated to make it up to me or else suffer _my wrath_."

Bruce smiles, absolutely enamored as he curls around Talia, resting his ear over the steady _thump-thump_ of her heart.

Her fingers massage Bruce's temples and scalp, easing away what little remains of his tension. "What did my father wish to discuss with you?" Talia asks, eventually, her voice barely a whisper.

"He believes that, with our two families, we can save this world. Cure it, I believe were his exact words." Bruce answers because he knows she will listen and he doesn't want any secrets between the two of them, and also because he knows Talia will _understand_. "He wants to unite our two families. He wants me to be Heir to the Demon."

Talia is silent for a moment, but she keeps running her fingers through Bruce's hair. "And after you ascend to Ra's, I am to become _Bride_ to the Demon. He wants to bring the two of us together in order to create an heir that will continue his legacy," Eyes locked with Bruce’s, Talia cradles her beloved’s face, and then she leans down slowly until their lips brush when she talks. “Because, as much as my father loves me, as much as he loves _Nyssa_ , we are not sons.”

Bruce reaches with a tentative hand to brush cup Talia’s face, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “You knew of your father’s plans?” He asks, brows furrowed.

Shamed by the implication that she had known of her father’s plans, that she had purposely concealed those plans from her beloved, Talia dips her head down for another kiss. She lingers there for a moment, just long enough to tease Bruce’s tongue with her own, pressing one last chaste kiss to his lips before they part. “When my affection for you became evident when I claimed you as _my beloved_ , my father said he would grant us his blessing if it would mean my happiness.” Talia licks her lips, and her next words have a touch of hesitance. “I knew, even then, he only did so because he hoped to unite our blood, with you as husband and me as your wife. But I wanted you, I _loved_ you, so I readily gave my consent.”

Bruce’s thumb finds Talia’s wet lower lip and drags thoughtfully across the length of it. “Talia…”

“Our children would be beautiful,” She notes, her words matter of fact. “So, my beloved, my father has given you his blessing.” Talia kisses and mouths at her beloved’s thumb, and then she says, “And I have as well.”

Bruce shuffles closer until their foreheads come together in the darkness. “Talia, I _love_ you,” He whispers and he means every word. Bruce loves Talia, but he means his next words just as much. “But I _cannot_ be a part of your father’s plans. I have always believed that there is nothing more precious than life, and your father worships _death_.”

Talia purses her lips in thought, and then she reaches out to lace their fingers together. “If this is true, then there is only one way that we can be together.” She lifts his hand to her wine-colored lips, brushing a soft kiss against his palm, and then she rolls to her feet and saunters over to her bed. “After my coming-of-age trials, when my father deemed me a warrior for the League, he gifted me with a sword that once belonged to him. Passed down through many generations.” Crouching down, Talia retrieves the sword from its case where she keeps it under her bed before she rises to her feet and makes her way to where Bruce is now sitting, listening intently. “Use it to kill the Head of the Demon,” Talia insists.

Bruce shoots to his feet, brows furrowed, “Talia, no—“

Talia interrupts his protests by marching up to him, pressing the sword into his hand. “End his life and take his place,” She says seriously, his hands clasped between her own, the sword held precariously between them. “And then we can be together. We can govern the League the way _you_ wish it, beloved. We can mold it in your image, it can come to value life instead of worshiping death, and—“

 “Talia, do you _hear_ yourself right now?” Bruce demands as he takes a step back from Talia, his eyebrows high on his forehead as he stares at her incredulously. “This is just— _no_.” Bruce growls, voice tight, “I will _not_ kill your _father_.”

“If you do not kill him, and if you do not accept his offer to ascend to Ra’s, then there is no future for the two of us together.” Talia cries, begging him to see reason as she cups his face, brushing her thumbs over his cheeks as she stares into his brown eyes. “My father is _merciless_ , and he will view your refusal as a slight, and you will become _his enemy_.”

Bruce looks away, unable to face the weakness Talia would never have allowed anyone else to witness.

Talia exhales, her voice shaky when she asks, “How long has he granted you to think over his offer?”

“Until Dawn,” Bruce answers.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, after Talia had realized that Bruce didn't have an answer, not yet, the two of them are tangled in silk sheets and each other. Talia's curled into his side, head resting over his heart, her face tilted up towards Bruce. She breathes steadily in and out of her mouth, but there is a crease between her brows and Bruce hates that he's caused her such distress even in sleep.

Bruce is warm and comfortable, but he hasn't slept.

He's always felt free in Nanda Parbat, free of the shackles and weight of the Wayne family legacy, but now the choice he has to make tarnishes the peace he has found within these stone walls. Dawn has just broken outside and, though heavy velvet drapes are drawn over the windows and keeping Talia's chambers pleasantly dark, Bruce knows his time is almost up. He has to make a decision.

"I have to return to Gotham, Talia," Bruce whispers, knowing his lover cannot hear him. "There's nothing you can do or say to stop me, and that's why I haven't told you because I knew you'd try. But I _have_ to keep my promise. I have to rid my home of the evil that litters her streets, but I have to find a way to do that without killing. If I allow myself to go down that road, I know that I'll never come back from it, and I'll no longer be the man that you love. I won't ask you to leave with me, I know you are loyal to your father, but I can't stay and I can't kill Ra's. I can't compromise my moral authority, not even for you."

Bruce inhales his lover's familiar scent, drawing it deep into his lungs and cherishing these last moments he has with Talia, squeezing his eyes shut and ignoring the sting of tears that he can feel behind his eyelids.

 

* * *

 

Much like he had the previous night, Bruce walks into the room and immediately drops down to one knee, bowing his head as he waits for Ra's to acknowledge him.

Ra's sits upon his throne, a daughter on each side, and he looks every inch the seasoned warrior that he truly is. Gone is the man, the friend, who had clasped Bruce on the shoulder and offered advice and words of support, and in his place is Ra's al Ghul, the Demon's Head. "فارس الظلام," Ra's announces and Bruce looks up, but he does not look at Talia. "I trust you have reached your decision?"

"When I first came to your doorstep, I thought that I could find a home here, that this is where I really belonged, far from the corruption and hypocrisy that has been slowly killing me all these years," Bruce admits, and there's a small part of him that will miss the peace he had found in Nanda Parbat, but he also knows that this is the right decision. He has to return to Gotham. "But my soul is divided with my ability to fight and my desire to show compassion, and someone so conflicted does not have a place as the Demon's Head _or_ within the League."

[Talia](http://www.polyvore.com/wtyl_talia_al_ghul/set?id=210251606) moans as if his words are killing her, and Bruce looks at her briefly, only to return his attention to Ra's when the Demon's Head climbs to his feet. "It saddens me to hear you speak thus, for I had truly believed you to be the true successor I have been looking for—"

[Nyssa](http://www.polyvore.com/wtyl_nyssa_raatko/set?id=210252579)'s mouth curves into a snarl at her father's words and Bruce finally understands why she has disliked him since the moment he had walked into her home, since the moment her sister named him her beloved.

"But know this," Ra's continues, "If you choose to leave Nanda Parbat, if you choose to reclaim your previous name and past life, then this means we are enemies."

Talia turns to her father, eyes wide, "Father, please, I beg you—"

"Silence," Ra's orders, voice cold and sharp, his blue eyes trained on Bruce. "Does this alter your decision at all?"

"No," Bruce answers honestly, and then his mouth curves into a wry smile. "I have an ailing ancestor who needs me."

Ra's face twists into his own wry smirk when he recognizes the words, and he nods. "Then, فارس الظلام, I release you. You can reclaim your previous name and return to Gotham." His blue eyes turn to ice. "I hope, in time, you do not come to regret this insult."

"I won't," Bruce answers confidently.

It's time to go home.

 

**THE END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm happy to announce that the next two installments are in varying shades of completion. Pray to the uni gods and ask them to take pity so it doesn't take too long to get them posted; below you will find both of their summaries.
> 
>  **i can tell (we are gonna be friends).**  
>  **summary:** Long before the crime-fighting, super-secret identities, and epic romances with emotionally-stunted vigilantes, they were Felicity Wayne and Barbara Gordon: _best friends._ Because all great friendships have to start somewhere. [Felicity-centric, coincides with chapter 4 of _carry on my wayward son_ ]
> 
> and
> 
>  **it's so quiet here and i feel so cold (this house no longer feels like home)**  
>  **summary:** Bruce hasn't been the same since he returned from who-knows-where, and Felicity hates mysteries. They bug her and the need to be solved. [post-comws. Bruce Wayne becomes Batman]


End file.
